


Baby, You're a Rock Star

by rivers_bend



Series: Broadway, Porn, and Rock and Roll [2]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Phone Sex, Porn Watching, Pornstars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Phone sex is anti-social at best on a tour bus, if you want to stay friends with your band, and text sex is difficult if you want to actually get off, so Adam and Tommy have taken to watching porn together.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, You're a Rock Star

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gerard Way, Porn Star ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/144740) by [mistresscurvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscurvy/pseuds/mistresscurvy). 



> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used here, and neither believe nor mean to imply this actually happened.

"Why do you have to be so far away?" Adam knows the answer, but he wants to hear Tommy say it.

"Because I am an amazing guitar player and Court and I wrote some awesome songs and Revolution wanted us to open for them on their US tour." He says it by rote in a sloppy sing-song way like he's been saying it every night for almost a month. Probably because he has.

But Adam can't get enough of it. His rock star boyfriend is _on tour_. And he hates that they've managed two nights together in the last four weeks, and he hates not having anyone to come home to after curtain every night, and he hates that their neighbor, Chuck, seems to think Tommy being away means Adam is now single and interested, but damn. His boyfriend is an actual fucking Rock Star. And _Holmes V Ripper_ ends its run in three more weeks and Adam gets to be a groupie for the last leg of the tour.

("You won't be a groupie," Tommy keeps insisting. "You will be the support act's guitar player's boyfriend hitching an against-the-rules ride on the tour bus."

"Right," Adam always answers. "Groupie!")

Tonight, after Tommy finishes telling Adam about why he's so far away (Lubbock--Adam has a map on his iPhone that sends him alerts), he says, "Wanna watch a movie?"

Phone sex is anti-social at best on a tour bus, if you want to stay friends with your band, and text sex is difficult if you want to actually get off, so Adam and Tommy have taken to watching porn together. The advantage of being porn stars in your spare time: the porn they're watching is actually them.

They have three films to choose from now, and they've been alternating them, but their last four movie nights Tommy's picked the sex-club video where Adam's fucking his face, Tommy's hands cuffed behind his back, while a dozen men and women look on, playing with themselves or each other. Tommy can sound as blasé as he'd like about being on tour, but Adam's not fooled. He can't wait to be there for him every night as he comes off stage.

"Adam?"

"Sorry," Adam says. "Thinking about how fucking hot you are on your knees with my dick down your throat. And how I cannot wait for this run to be over so I can see it with my own eyes again."

"Oh." The word ends on a ragged breath, but Tommy tries for cool when he continues. "I'll take that as a yes, then?"

"Preference, baby?"

"You choose."

Adam hates to be predictable, but sometimes you gotta be predictable.

It doesn't seem fair that he's got a 36" TV and Tommy has to watch on his phone, so Adam puts Tommy on speaker and goes to his video files. "Tell me when you're ready," he says, and gets, "I was born ready, babyboy," in reply.

Adam pictures him in his bunk, curtain drawn tight, with his earbuds in, pillows propped behind his back, one hand holding his phone on his knee, the other under the sheets cupping his dick, rubbing a little in anticipation. "Go," Adam says, and he hits play.

They tried at first letting Adam talk while Tommy just watched and listened, but it was too hard for Tommy to keep quiet, so now they both do their best to stay silent, getting off on imagination, memories, and tiny hitches in the other one's breathing. When Tommy on screen whimpers as Adam jerks his head back by the hair, Tommy on the phone breathes deep, like maybe he's yawning. Adam knows he isn't. It takes everything Adam has not to say something, _that's it, baby_ , or _look how you open up for me_ , but he clamps his teeth together, concentrates on drawing air into his lungs, letting it out again.

Knowing Tommy's going to take longer--a drawn curtain is nothing like a closed bedroom door--Adam loses himself in the movie, the sound of Tommy breathing through the phone, holds off touching himself until the girl with the tattoo sleeve reaches down to play with her girlfriend's clit; he remembers Tommy's commentary the first time they'd watched the DVD when Summertime sent it over, _Look how hot it gets her I can take it like that. Grabbing her girl's shoulders, wanting those fingers up inside her like you've got your cock right down my throat._ He knows Tommy will be close now, can hear him swallowing, hear how each inhalation is broken into two or three. He reaches for the lube, gets just enough to ease the way, wraps his hand around and tugs.

On screen, Tommy's knees are spread wide, leather chaps protecting them from the hard floor and framing his pale ass, making Adam want to bite it. His cock and balls as well as his wrists are bound in matching black leather. Adam wonders if he can get him to wear that outfit on stage. It'd look good with his guitar. Maybe minus the cockring and plus a pair of jeans. There's a time and a place, and that's not the kind of show The Dukes or Revolution are doing. Adam's got it all in the closet, though, and it should definitely go in his suitcase. There are at least three hotel nights planned for the last month of shows, and Tommy can wear it then if nowhere else.

Adam can't hear any breathing through the phone now, and imagines Tommy's head thrown back, face pink with the effort of staying absolutely silent as he comes. Tommy on screen isn't breathing either, nose pressed to Adam's stomach, chin snugged up against his sac, Adam holding him there, counting down the seconds, relishing Tommy's throat working around his cock. His Tommy takes a shaky breath just before Adam lets the Tommy on his knees up for oxygen, and the doubling effect takes Adam from _oh yeah_ to _oh, god, now_.

It hits him too suddenly, and he can't keep quiet as he comes, hissing curses and apologies and he doesn't even know what. Tommy just laughs at him, a low chuckle that manages to sound both filthy and innocent at once. "Love you," he says while Adam's trying to get his breath back. "Get some sleep."

Adam hauls in air, lets it out on, "Love you too, rock star."

"Call you tomorrow."

Adam disconnects the call and flips to his map, eyes tracing the highway from Lubbock to Albuquerque, picturing the buses rolling through the night, the bands and roadies watching TV, playing video games, maybe in their bunks reading, or trying to have silent phone sex with someone back home. He loves Broadway, and he's always said he wouldn't give it up for anything, at least not 'til he wins a Tony, but maybe he would. Maybe there's an audience out there somewhere, waiting for him to roll into town and take the stage.


End file.
